“His Excellency, the Governor of—”
Burst of static.
Job swore and fiddled with the volume button. Tash remembered that only two other states in the Union—Massachusetts and New Hampshire—still used a form of address inherited from colonial governors: Your Excellency.
Jeremy’s face came on screen. He looked tired, but there was still the irrepressible glint in his eyes that seemed to say: I refuse to take anything in this cockeyed world seriously.
He was upstairs in the Octagonal Room sitting at his own desk, which someone had stripped of its usual clutter.
Tash felt like a split personality as she listened to her own words in this other voice, clear, strong, masculine. Every time the small audience laughed or clapped she felt a surge of pride.
Job seemed to have the same feeling. “No last minute changes so far,” he whispered. “You and I did a good job.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Twenty-two and a half minutes gone and half a page to go. Right on the nose.”
He touched his finger to his own nose in the immemorial radio-television gesture, and then gasped: “Oops! What’s up?”
The camera had not shifted, but Carlos had stepped into its view on screen. He stood behind Jeremy’s chair, a little to Jeremy’s right. He looked the ideal aide-de-camp, deferential but self-respecting, as he leaned forward to slide a piece of paper into Jeremy’s right hand.
Carlos stepped back. Once more Jeremy was alone on screen. He glanced down at the paper, then lifted his eyes with a smile.
It was not a political smile, muscular and self-conscious. It was a spontaneous, almost boyish grin which made it hard to realize he was smiling at an audience he could not see. There was real joy in his voice as he ignored the last page of his script and improvised his final words.
“And now I must ask you to excuse me. I have important things to do. The strike has been settled.”
Another flash of the state flag on screen blotted out his face and there was a burst of martial music. No one paid any attention to the music or to the news commentator’s voice that followed it. Everyone in the room was clapping and crowding around Job, the only member of the state government present.
As soon as he could get away, he and Tash hurried upstairs.
“Jeremy has a sense of the dramatic,” she said.
“You’re a dead duck if you don’t,” retorted Job. “Of course that dirty rag, the Morning Globe, will try to make it sound as if Jeremy knew all about this settlement before he went on the air and arranged for Carlos to pass him that note to make the announcement dramatic, but you and I know that isn’t true. Jeremy doesn’t plan things. They just happen to him because he has luck, and then, naturally, he always rises to the occasion.”
By the time they got up to the Octagonal Room, Jeremy had left with Carlos for a final meeting with the Barloventan exiles, who were now accusing him of “betraying” them by settling the strike.
Hilary took them down to the Florida Room to wait for Jeremy.
“I want to tell him that Vivian was delighted with the speech,” she said.
“Isn’t she sitting up for him?” asked Job.
“No. She must get to sleep early. Doctor’s orders.”
It was after ten when Jeremy and Carlos arrived. Then there were drinks and cold meats and salads, congratulations and post-mortems and projections of the future.
It isn’t a party, thought Tash. It’s the celebration of a clan victory.
For the first time she realized that the people to whom you become attached in life are not those with whom you share pleasure, but those with whom you share work and pain, risk and responsibility.
At midnight Jeremy said: “I think it’s time we broke this up. Hilary, thank you for all you’ve done.” He kissed her lightly and sexlessly on one cheek. “And thank you, too, Tash.” He kissed her cheek just as lightly, just as sexlessly. “Good night. Sogni d’oro!”
Upstairs, Tash and Hilary parted company at Hilary’s door and Tash went on down the corridor to her own rooms.
Inside, she closed the door, but she did not turn on a light. She went out on the balcony and knelt down; folding her arms on the railing and resting a cheek on one arm, she looked up at a bright, white glaze of stars.
So this was the “reason” she had taken the job at Leafy Way. This was why she had told Bill Brewer it was “something she had to do.” Even then she was already in love with Jeremy in the timeless, unmoral depths of being far below the social self.
She had told herself she would never fall in love, as if it were something she could control. She should have remembered that it is dangerous to insult Aphrodite, who always takes her revenge on those who defy her power, men or women.
Casual kissing had started in the theatre world and spread finally to the respectable suburbs. Nine times out of ten it meant nothing to the man or the woman, but there was always that tenth time when it might mean something to one of them.
Only to one? Could such strong feeling exist without being reciprocated at all?
If only he hadn’t kissed her she might never have known the truth about herself.
She had a liking for Vivian Playfair and, more than liking, compassion, now she knew Vivian was in some kind of trouble. Whatever that trouble was, a divorce, however discreet, would spread it all over the front page of every newspaper in the country and the world.
Even the most carefully managed love affair was hardly an asset in politics. A divorce could be disaster.
She remembered years ago hearing an old man say to a young man: “What should you do if you find yourself falling in love with a married woman? Run like hell!”
Some people pretended that infidelity and divorce did not involve emotions or morals. She knew better. She could remember the unhappiness in her father’s voice when he said to her mother: I didn’t want this to happen. Try to think of me as if I had been driving a rickety car too fast on a rough mountain road. . . .
If you had time to jump out of a car before it crashed, you jumped.
Tomorrow she would hand in her resignation.
10
WHICH IS WORSE, to have nature mock unhappiness with a sunny day, or match it with clouds and rain?
When Tash awoke, rain was whipping the window-panes and the dull sky seemed close enough to touch.
She moved heavily, as if her hands and feet were weighted with lead. She dressed without self-awareness, a computer going through a programmed routine.
It was so early, the mess hall was empty when she got downstairs. She looked at the scrambled eggs in the chafing-dish with distaste and drank a cup of black coffee.
In her own office the daylight was so thin that she had to switch on a lamp beside her typewriter.
She began to type.
Dear Jeremy,
To my deep regret I find that I must offer you my resignation to take effect as soon as possible. The strain of working so late . . .
She exxed out the last sentence. He knew irregular hours meant nothing to a newspaper woman.
She tried again:
I am resigning for purely personal reasons . . .
Such as what?
She could say she had to be with her mother in Boston or her father in Rome. Neither of them would deny it, but what a shabby lie!
She could remember her father quoting Amiel’s Journal: Every lie must be paid for. Truth always takes her revenge. . . .
I’m getting married. To whom?
I don’t like the job. He would know that wasn’t true.
She remembered her mother saying that if you must decline an invitation there are only two excuses that will not hurt people’s feelings: either you have another engagement or you are ill. As everyone knew, this was a convention, not a lie but a formula for saving face.
She could not bring herself to malingering, but couldn’t she suggest she had another engagement? In this context, another job?
It was too early for the editor of a morning newspaper
to be at his office, but Bill Brewer’s home number was in the telephone book.
She dialed and listened to the bell drilling the silence with its nagging, repetitive peal. She couldn’t visualize the place where it was ringing, for she had never been to Bill’s house.
A sleepy voice mumbled in her ear. “H’lo?”
“Bill?”
“Why, Tash!” The voice was wide awake.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It would matter if this wasn’t a kind of crisis.”
“What kind of crisis?”
“Let’s say a small crisis. I want to give up this job, but I must have a reasonably plausible excuse for doing so. Would you be willing to say you need me back on the paper again?”
Bill laughed. “Of course. And it’s true. I do need you.”
“Oh, Bill, how can I thank you?”
“Are you going to tell me your real reason for resigning?”
“Some day, perhaps, but not now, and not over the telephone.”
“Tash, are you in trouble of any kind?”
“Only trouble of my own making. Nobody knows about it except me. You know the worst things in life don’t happen out in the world around us. They happen inside our own skulls. If you can keep that in mind, you can keep things in proportion.”
“When are you coming back to work?”
“As soon as I can. I’ll let you know after I’ve talked to Jerry.”
“Jerry?”
“Jeremy, Governor Playfair.”
“Oh, I see. Well, call me as soon as you can. I’ll be in the office by noon.”
“Thank you, Bill. Good-bye.”
Tash went back to her typewriter:
. . . to take effect as soon as possible. William Brewer, the editor of . . .
She sat back looking at her unfinished letter. Then she wrenched it out of the typewriter, crumpled it into a ball, and hurled the ball into her scrapbasket.
She picked up the telephone again and dialed the switchboard.
“Nick, do you know where the Governor is now?”
“In the Octagonal Room.”
“Is he awfully busy?”
“I don’t know. Mr. de Miranda is with him.”
“Will you ring the number for me, please?”
Carlos answered.
“This is Tash. I’d like to talk to the Governor this morning. Can you suggest a good time?”
“Hold on a moment.”
She heard a rumble of voices in the background, then Carlos spoke again. “Why don’t you come now? It’s as good a time as any.”
On the stairs she was aware of her own heart beats, not quicker but heavier, and so loud she was afraid other people would hear them. Yet it had to be this way. She couldn’t resign by letter after being with Jeremy so much the last few days. He would think it odd. He might even suspect a hidden motive. She must try to be natural, casual, and nonchalant.
Carlos met her at the door. “Jerry’s giving you ten minutes. A great honor because he’s really busy.”
That made it all the worse.
“Will ten minutes be enough?”
“It should be.”
“While you’re talking to him, I’ll be working on the timetable of his Western trip. Don’t take more than ten minutes. Every second counts from now till polling day.”
Jeremy was standing in the tall, bay window at the far end of the eight-sided room, looking out at the rain, slashing the windowpanes. He turned and smiled. “Good morning, Tash. Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“Not really.” Her throat was dry. She had to swallow. Her hands were shaky. Her knees just weren’t there.
“I don’t quite know how to say this. I’m really sorry, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I’ve come to . . . well, resign.”
The ghost at the back of her mind asked her if is this was her idea of being natural, casual, and nonchalant?
Jeremy had been in public life too long for his expression to betray his inner feelings. His manner was pleasantly polite and totally unreadable.
“My dear Tash, why?”
“Oh, didn’t I say? It’s Bill Brewer, my editor. He wants be back on the newspaper. He says he really needs me.”
“I need you, too. It’s only a few months till the election. Couldn’t Mr. Brewer possibly spare you for that short time?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I was depending on you.”
“I know. That’s what makes me feel so badly about it.”
“Would it do any good if I talked to Brewer?”
“I don’t think so.”
Jeremy smiled suddenly. “Would it do any good if I talked to you?”
She was speechless. She could only shake her head.
“Have you given me the real reason for your resignation? Or has something happened to make you unhappy here?”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that. I have been happy here. It’s just that I . . . well, I owe it to Bill. He gave me my first job when I first came to this state and I can’t let him down.”
“If that’s the way you feel, there’s not much I can say, but wouldn’t you like to think it over for a few days or a week?”
“No, thanks. That wouldn’t make any difference. It’s better to do this quickly. I’ll just stay until you can get someone else.”
“That won’t be necessary.” There was a touch of coldness in his voice. “We can find someone else in a day or so. And now, if you will excuse me?”
He sat down at his desk and began studying the papers that lay on the blotter. Without looking up he said: “When you get back to the executive offices, please tell Carlos I’m ready for him now.”
As she went out, she looked at a clock. It had taken only three minutes.
She ought to have been happy because she had done the right thing, but now she discovered as many have before her that doing the right thing does not necessarily make you happy. She had done what she had always believed her father should have done fourteen years ago, and the result was that she had never felt more unhappy in her life. For the first time she began to understand what her father had gone through. He had acted as he had to escape a desolation like that she felt now.
If her resignation had been announced on television, it could not have flashed through the executive offices more instantaneously.
Carlos was the first to approach her, angry and plaintive at the same time. He said all the things Jeremy might have said and didn’t. How could she let the Governor down? How could she leave now, of all times, on the very eve of a campaign? Who was going to write the speeches for the Governor’s western trip? Did she think he, Carlos, could carry the whole burden alone? Why had she taken on this job if she didn’t mean to keep it until after the election? Her leaving at such short notice was a disgrace to her and an insult to the Governor. Didn’t she have any sense of loyalty at all?
Tash was far more able to face this storm than Jeremy’s coldness.
“I’m sorry, but my job is not that important to you or to the Governor. And I did offer to wait until he could get someone else.”
Carlos left her office, still fuming, and Job arrived.
“Another county heard from!” He was quoting the oft repeated cry of the men who kept tally at party headquarters when election returns were coming in. “I’m surprised at you.”
“Job, I’m tired of apologizing. I know it must seem awful to you who have been with Jeremy so long, but—”
“But you have to think of yourself.”
“And Bill Brewer and the newspaper.”
“Boloney. That’s not your real reason.”
It was hard to meet those sharp eyes. She was more afraid of Job’s shrewdness than of Jeremy’s disdain or Carlos’ indignation.
Job removed the cigar from his mouth, always a signal that he was going to say something of importance.
“Jerry’s election means everything to me, a
nd I think you’re the one for this job, much better than your predecessor was. Not everyone can work smoothly with Carlos and Hilary. Not everyone has your knack with words. There’s hardly time to find anyone else as good as you. Will you stay if I see to it your salary is doubled, starting today?”
“It’s not a question of money.”
“Yeah? Job gave her a hard look. “Everything is a question of money . . . or sex. What else is there?”
“Children and . . .”
“And honor? Don’t say it. Even you couldn’t be that naive. Think about my offer for the next twenty-four hours. Let me know tomorrow.”
He was gone before she could answer.
She fell briskly to work tidying up her desk, hoping drudgery would take her mind off other things. It didn’t.
She knew now that Job, least sensitive member of the Tennis Cabinet, was the only one who suspected the truth at all. She was afraid of his giving her away to the others. He would if he had anything to gain by it. Better go the first thing in the morning without seeing him or anyone else again. She could leave a note for him on his desk refusing his offer.
Her own desk was now piled high with a mass of data on the western counties, which research had just sent over for her to use in Jeremy’s western speeches. All she could do about that was to spend her last day reducing the incoherent mass to a working brief for her successor.
By the time she finished that, a gleam of watery sunshine was leaking through the clouds. The rain had ceased. The only sound now was the steady dripping of a drainpipe.
She looked up at the sky and saw the traditional patch of blue big enough to make a Dutchman’s breeches. When she raised the window, a moist, earthy, almost tropical smell came in from the garden. The rain had not brought coolness.
She was closing her typewriter when Hilary arrived. “Don’t say it,” said Tash. “You’re furious because I am resigning, and you want me to reconsider, but I won’t.”
“That isn’t what I came to say.” Hilary sat down and stretched out her legs as if her muscles were cramped. “However, since you’ve brought it up yourself, why are you resigning?”
Helen McCloy Page 9